The Best Horror of the Year. Volume 4

IN THE ABSENCE OF MURDOCK Terry Lamsley

“Oh, it’s you Franz, come on in.”

“I’ve come to see Jerry. Is he at home?”

“Of course he is. Where else would he be? He’s always at home nowadays, remember. He’s upstairs, waiting for you, I expect.”

Franz gave his sister a curious look. “How do you know that?”

“I suggested that he call you or another of his old friends.”

“Is something wrong?”

“Possibly. Probably,” Barbara said, pulling the front door shut behind him.

Franz said, “I can hear it in your voice and Jerry sounded very strange when he phoned.”

“Yes, I expect he did.”

“Are you going to tell me what it is?”

“The — problem? Well, I’m not sure about that. I’d better let Jerry explain. It would sound better coming from him.”

“Really? Why’s that?”

Barbara gave Franz a wild, slightly irritated look. “Please,” she said, “go on up. He’ll be pleased to see you.”

“You seem almost embarrassed about something, Barbara.”

“Not really, no — it’s not that, exactly — but we’ve both been under a bit of a strain recently, for the past few days, in fact.”

“It shows.”

“Well, you’re here now. Perhaps you can sort things out.”

Franz started to climb the stairs. “At least I’ll try,” he said.

Barbara waited until he was passing the chair lift waiting at the top of the stairs before she called out, “Thanks for coming, Franz. Jerry will be so pleased to see you.”

Franz said, “So you said, just now.”

He walked along the landing, stopped outside his brother-in-law’s room, and waited a few moments before lifting his fist and rapping rather loudly on the door.

“Is that you, Franz? Come on in.”

Franz walked in to the room Jerry called his office. It resembled an office in as much as it contained a large desk covered with a certain amount of paper and a typewriter. Jerry called himself an ‘old-fashioned’ writer. He claimed to despise computers and people who used them and was proud of his antiquated method of producing his and Murdock’s scripts. As far as Franz could remember, Murdock transferred the finished script to respectable Word form, but Jerry was not supposed to be aware of that. Murdock was not present but Franz thought he could detect the faint smell of the man’s horrible cigars hanging in the air.

Jerry was sitting in a wheelchair near the window. The heavy curtains were drawn and the only light in the room came from a big lamp hanging over the desk.

Franz said, “What have you been up to Jerry?”

“Not a lot. We’ve just about put the new series to bed, I’m pleased to say.”

“You didn’t invite — summon — me here to tell me that.”

“True enough. I’d forgotten what an extremely no-nonsense sort of person you were Franz. Forgive my attempted polite small talk.”

“Barbara thinks you’ve got a problem.”

“Hum. Well, it’s not exactly a problem. One that you might be able to solve, that is.”

“What is it then?”

“Something inexplicable, Franz.”

“Go on then, astonish me.”

“Okay. Murdock has gone missing.”

“He’s walked out on you? Doesn’t surprise me at all, you can be a pain in the neck at times, as I’m sure you’re aware. I’m surprised that the working relationship has lasted so long. He’s probably had enough or too much of you. Needs a break. I expect he’ll turn up in his own good time.”

“I fear not.”

“Why?”

“The circumstances of his disappearance were… peculiar.”

For some reason Franz found this funny. He laughed then said, “Just what exactly is on your mind, Jerry. Do you want me to go and look for him?”

“No, that may not be necessary, but I’d like your opinion. Just let me explain.”

“Do, by all means.”

Jerry put his hands together in a prayerful attitude, tapped his fingers together one by one, than hauled his wheelchair round so it was exactly facing Franz. Franz supposed he was attempting to appear relaxed, but he had the same mildly embarrassed expression on his face that Franz had seen on his sister’s face a few minutes earlier.

He said, “I assume you know how we work together, Murdock and I?”

Franz had watched an episode of the comedy Murdock and Jerry were responsible for, Dead Funny Ted, set in a funeral parlor run by a doddering old fool called Edward and set in a picturesque seaside town populated almost entirely by elderly people. He had found it gormless and not the least bit funny, but he didn’t think it necessary to tell Jerry that. Besides, the public were supposed to love it. Instead he said, “I read something somewhere, in one of the TV Sunday supplements I guess, how you work as a team. About how you read the papers together in the morning in search of ideas then get down to work in the afternoon.”

Jerry nodded, “Murdock enjoys what he calls ‘our daily disaster sessions’. Always seems to be something terrible happening somewhere. You have to laugh.”

“I believe it mentioned something about that too.”

Jerry permitted himself an uneasy smile of satisfaction on hearing this. “That’s right. That gets us going. Anyway, we both have our different roles. I provide the plots and situations and Murdock handles the characterization and dialogue. Believe it or not, he’s good at jokes. Or, rather, a humorous turn of phrase. Myself, I’m less so.”

Jerry paused as though he expected Franz to make some comment. Franz didn’t so Jerry continued, “It always worked well enough for both of us. We were just about finishing up on our fifth series, you know.”

“I didn’t.”

“Yes, it’s been what you might call a runaway success.”

“That’s very good.”

“We were working on putting the finishing touches to the last episode a few days ago. Murdock was going through his paces, speaking every character’s part aloud, as he has always insisted on doing, searching about for the humor in the situation we’ve reached in the script. I had turned my chair away from him and wheeled it up to the window for some fresh air. My lungs and heart, as you know, are not good, especially in the presence of Murdock’s cigar smoke.”

“I don’t know how or why you stand it.”

“As I said, we have to work as a team, all for one and one for all. Murdock says he can’t think without a smoke and we each need the support of the other. It’s the way we get things done.”

“Humm. It once occurred to me that he uses those particularly pungent cigars to hide another more personal smell.”

“Barbara told me she sometimes has the same suspicions. She keeps her distance.”

Franz, resisting the temptation to yawn, said, “Anyway, carry on.”

“It’s going to be a bit tricky explaining the next bit. Barbara, usually so sympathetic, can’t follow me at all after this point. Anyway, see what you think.”

“You had your back to Murdock and you were looking out of the window.”

“I was doing a bit of free thinking, I call it, searching for inspiration, letting my mind wander, and was not really aware of my surroundings. While I was daydreaming I realised that Murdock’s voice had stopped and the room had fallen very silent. Even when he’s not mumbling away to himself Murdock fidgets about and makes noises. He giggles to himself and coughs and sighs a lot. I couldn’t hear a thing from him so I looked round to see if he was alright.”

“And he wasn’t.”

“No, he really wasn’t. He wasn’t there at all.”

“He’d left the room.”

“He certainly wasn’t in it. It took me just a few seconds to establish that fact. Then I smelt burning and that worried me, as you can imagine. I thought the house might be on fire but then I saw smoke rising from over there,” he pointed, “just where Murdock had been sitting and I found a cigar end smoldering on the carpet.”

Franz leaned forward and rested his hand on his forehead in hope of concealing the smile that he couldn’t avoid. Jerry said, “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing, please continue.”

“Yes, well, I had to call Barbara then, because if I reached down for it I risked falling out of my wheelchair. I mean, I could have killed myself, it was that risky. My condition is very delicate. Luckily she heard me and ran up at once.” He pulled a peculiar face, like a cautious rat sniffing the air, then said, “There’s what’s left of the cigar. I thought I’d better keep it.” He stretched out and slid a large glass ashtray towards Franz.

After giving the tray and its contents a brief inspection Franz said, “Why?”

“Did I keep it? I suppose as some sort of evidence.”

“Evidence of what? Surely, at that time it didn’t occur to you that something had gone wrong.”

“Oh yes it did. No doubt about it. There was a feeling in this room. Barbara noticed it I think, but she didn’t say anything, so as not to upset me even more, bless her.”

“She could see that you were upset, then?”

“I couldn’t hide it. And she was furious about the burnt carpet. I tried to explain but she didn’t, couldn’t, understand what had happened and I was too confused to make much sense. I mean, I wasn’t sure myself. She got the message that Murdock had gone after dropping his cigar but she wasn’t much surprised because she’s said many a time that the man was a clumsy lout.”

“Well, let’s face it, she’s not far wrong.”

Jerry looked mildly disapproving of that. “Murdock has his faults, no doubt about it, but together we bring in the money. I may not be around much longer, and there’s seven years left before the mortgage on this house is paid. I frequently have to remind Barbara of that when she criticizes Murdock.”

“Anyway, you say he’s gone missing for the moment,” Franz said.

“I said he’s vanished.”

“And you saw and heard nothing when he went?”

“Umm, well, there was a slight sound, just before I looked round and found he had gone. At least, I think so.”

Franz was tired. It had been a long, hard day in the library where he had been doing some research since it had opened at nine in the morning. He took a discrete look at his watch and found it was now almost eleven in the evening. He got out of his chair and yawned. Jerry got the message and said, “You are leaving. I’m sorry to have kept you. It was good of you to come.”

“What was it though, this sound you heard?”

Jerry sought the precise expression to describe the noise he thought he had perceived, then said, “It was like a sharp inhalation and exhalation of air.”

“Of breath?”

“Almost certainly.”

“Like a sigh, then. Perhaps Murdock’s last sigh? Or gasp?”

“It’s no joke. I’m deadly serious about this.”

“I’ll go away and think about what you’ve told me but perhaps, if Murdock really has disappeared or had some sort of accident, wouldn’t it be better to call the police?”

“No, no way am I having anything to do with them. They’ll question me and I will have to tell the truth and they’ll think I’m mad. Do you think I’ve gone insane?”

“It crossed my mind,” Franz confessed, “but I think it more likely you just got it all wrong. Maybe you fell asleep for a short while that day and Murdock left without waking you.”

“He couldn’t do that. He makes too much noise, I told you. He bellows about and blunders into everything. Knocks things over.”

“He’s a big man. Anyway, I’m off now. I’ll have a fish about and I’ll be in touch.”

“What do you mean ‘fish about’?”

“I’m not sure. I’ll see if I can dig into things a bit, if you know what I mean?”

“I don’t. But that’s fine. Thank you Franz. I’m sorry to have off-loaded all this on you. But I felt I had to tell someone who was not too… judgmental.”

Franz slipped out of the room and almost ran downstairs. At the bottom he found his sister waiting for him.

“What do you think?” she said. “Has he told you the whole story?”

“He told me too much. More than I can believe.”

“When he called me up on Wednesday, to extinguish a cigar Murdock had dropped, I had no idea that he was up there alone. Usually I hear Murdock leaving the house. He can only manage three stairs then he has to have a rest. Like a bloody elephant coming down. And he usually calls out goodbye to me before he leaves. I didn’t hear a thing that day.”

“Perhaps he was in a hurry for some reason. Late for an appointment. Wanted to get away without causing a fuss.”

“I expect you’re right but people do disappear under odd circumstances. Strange things do happen, Franz.”

“Not to me they don’t. I’ve lived for almost fifty years and nothing remotely strange has ever happened to me.”

“That’s why I suggested Jerry get in touch with you to hear his story. You’re so down to earth. Jerry believes what he says though. I can’t get him away from that.”

“He’s delusional in my opinion. Not that I know anything about unusual psychological states. But you said yourself you’ve both been under a lot of strain recently. Perhaps he’s been working too hard.”

“We were doing okay before Murdock went missing, Franz.”

Next morning, Sunday, Franz lay in bed until just before noon, thinking about the work he was planning to do on his new project and trying not to think about Jerry or Murdock. It was a perfect day for working indoors, with a constant drizzle falling outside. But, after he had dressed and eaten a late breakfast, he phoned Barbara and asked for Murdock’s address. As it happened it turned out to be quite near where he lived. After establishing that Murdock was not answering his phone he told Barbara that he was going to call round to see what, if anything, was going on.

“Murdock probably isn’t aware that he’s caused this upset Barbara,” he told her. “I’ll see if I can get him to explain himself.”

“That’s really good of you Franz, but be careful.”

“What?”

“You heard what I said.”

“Are you suggesting Murdock might pose some sort of threat?”

“Not really, no. But we don’t know what might happen next, do we? I mean the man’s disappeared, hasn’t he?”

Franz put the phone down, grimaced at his reflection in a mirror, and went out to his car.

Franz recognised the spot as soon as he saw it. He’d passed it many times going in and out of town. A thirty yard square of grass, still covered by an inch of grimy snow from weeks before. It was surrounded by a mixture of bungalows and cheaply built houses of various vintages and with little or no individual parking space so their occupants had to squat their vehicles in front or on a makeshift and crumbling area of cement set in the among the unkempt grass. The higher walls of a larger and grander estate recently built behind loomed above them, giving the impression that the older group of houses had clung on where they were not wanted.

After finding space for his car on the cracked cement Franz looked about for number 15 which proved to be the largest of the bungalows. Obviously the script writing didn’t bring in as much money as he had supposed or, for some reason, Murdock chose to live in one of the less salubrious parts of town.

Franz walked in the continuously drizzling rain through a creaky gate and up to Murdock’s front door. As soon as he rapped his knuckles on the glass something, probably a small animal, went berserk in the hall beyond. He could hear it leaping and scratching frantically. He tried to get sight of it through the letter box but could not do so because a flap of canvas hung behind the door. He whispered what he hoped were words of comfort to the creature, whatever it was, which only made it wilder in its desperation. Franz withdrew and took stock of the rest of the building, which was much bigger than he had supposed, by circumnavigating it. When he got round to the front door again he was pretty sure that Murdock was not at home. He tried peering into the gloom beyond the front windows when a voice said, “Would you be looking for Mr. McFee, by any chance?”

It took Franz a few seconds to recognise Murdock’s surname, it was so long since he’d used it.

He turned and saw a bald man in a boiler suit carrying aloft an open umbrella. He said, “Yes, have you any idea where he is?”

“No,” the man said. He seemed to be measuring Franz up carefully.

Franz said, “There is some kind of animal in there that obviously wants to be let out.”

“That will be Mr. McFee’s dog, Rasputin.”

“Is it hungry?”

“If Mr. McFee is not at home and it’s not been fed, then it will be, yes.”

“Is he in the habit of going away and leaving it?”

“No. He gives my lad charge of it.”

“Your lad?”

“I’ll fetch him. He’s got a key.” The man went swiftly off towards the house next door and returned at once with a boy of about fourteen huddled up next to him under the umbrella. “This is the feller, Clive,” he said. “Says he’s a friend of Mr. McFee.”

Franz saw at once that Clive, unfortunately, was not all there. His father’s words seemed to mean nothing to him and he stared steadily at the ground in front of him.

“Clive is a bit slow, but he loves that dog. Mr. McFee isn’t here to let him in but if you say so he’ll open the door and let it out.”

“Well, certainly, yes, let’s do that.”

The man said, “Go on Clive,” and the boy sauntered away holding the key out in front of him. A moment later the dog burst out of the open door like a flood of bathwater, and squirmed round and round Clive’s legs. The boy knelt down and Rasputin licked his face voluptuously.

“It doesn’t bark,” Franz observed. “Why’s that?”

“Mr. McFee had it operated on, I believe.”

That seemed an odd remark to Franz. “I’d better take a look round in the house, to make sure nothing unfortunate has happened,” he said and, when the man made no objection, he made his way into the bungalow.

The stale smell of Murdock’s cigars hung about the place, particularly the kitchen, which was obviously the room most used. A few small piles of dog shit were scattered about on the floor, which Franz grubbed up with some paper towels. Not as many turds as might be expected but then the dog hadn’t eaten for possibly three or four days. Franz opened the fridge. Not much there either — some wilting salad, a pint of milk beginning to turn blue and a few cheese rinds. Relics of meals. Obviously, Murdock was not a fancy eater. On a shelf next to the refrigerator he spotted some tins of dog food. He eased the lid off one and turned its contents out into a saucer and set it down on the linoleum.

The large table obviously served Murdock for many purposes as its entire area was covered with books, magazine, DVDs, some dirty mugs and dishes, a computer and various other, to Franz, unrecognisable electrical gadgets. Two large scrapbooks of newspaper cuttings contained reviews of Dead Funny Ted, some of them surprisingly ancient, and reports of various disasters, both at home and in distant parts of the world.

Having seen enough of the kitchen Franz set about inspecting the rest of the house for signs of a possibly sick or even dead Murdock, perhaps in the bedroom.

The bungalow was surprisingly spacious, and contained more rooms than Franz had expected. Some of them were completely empty. Murdock hadn’t even bothered to put bulbs in the light sockets, others contained oddments of furniture stacked without thought any which way. Murdock lived a far more desolate life than Franz had imagined. And this from a man who laughed a lot. But not, Franz reminded himself, at particular jokes and incidents. He seemed to find amusement in life itself.

At the rear of the bungalow Franz became confused because someone, Murdock presumably, though he didn’t seem a likely candidate to be a master of DIY, had fitted neat partitions into two rooms to divide them up into a number of smaller spaces. Finding his way round them in the semi-darkness kept Franz fully occupied for some time and he was relieved when he came upon a wooden door which he took to be at the back of the house. He tried the handle, found it wasn’t locked, and hurried through it, only to find himself in a large, windowless room lit only by some slight luminescence originating in what at first he took to be some indoor plants. He stopped to get a better look at them and saw that in fact they were what appeared to be the upper — in fact the topmost — branches of a large tree and, looking down, he realised that they continued down into a space below the bungalow.

Bemused, he ventured forward a couple of steps and peered into what he thought might be a cellar and saw that the space below was too wide and deep to be anything of the kind. He could see a very long way down — so much so that he felt himself reeling. His fear of heights made him almost topple forward and it was with some effort that he managed to scramble back some distance towards the door. He held his right hand up to his brow as his head had for some reason begun to ache and glared again at the branches that protruded through the floor.

He noticed that some of them were beginning to move and sway a little where they were closest together, at the back, and thought he could see a clump of something in amongst them, like a platform, or maybe it was — could it be — a nest? It appeared to be a good four feet across and three or more feet deep.

Yes, he knew then that that was what it had to be, some kind of nest made of branches and the tattered remains of what appeared to be curtains, bed sheets and various scraps of clothing. And the reason that the branches were swaying and bending was because something, some creature, had been aroused by his presence, and was coming out of its nest to investigate the cause of its disturbance.

After a couple of quite violent shudders the nest tipped forwards at the side nearest Franz, far enough for him to get a glimpse of what could have been the top of a large hairless head and perhaps the tips of the fingers of a chubby, grasping hand.

Franz must have fled then, though he had no memory later of going through the wooden door and closing it behind him. He found himself in the partitioned rooms trying frantically to find his way out.

He fumbled and tumbled about in the near darkness for some time then, before he managed to relocate Murdock’s kitchen where he stopped for a moment to listen for any sounds of anything following him. There were no indications of that at all. All around him was perfect silence.

He sat at Murdock’s table just long enough to recover his breath and steady his head, then left the bungalow, slamming the door behind him.

He found the father of the boy who had gone off with Murdock’s dog waiting for him near the front step. The man, still holding his umbrella, looked at him and said. “You’ve cut your hand. It’s bleeding all down your jacket.”

Franz couldn’t think of anything to say to this but he realised it was true. He held the key out to the man who took it and said, “I’ll give it to the boy.”

Franz nodded.

“He’s not in there dead or anything then, Mr. McFee?”

Franz shook his head this time.

“Don’t worry about the dog. My boy will look after him in the meantime.”

This time Franz forced himself to speak.

“Does he go into the house to collect it?”

“My boy? No, never. Mr. McFee wouldn’t want him to.”

“Hum. Does he often go away, Murdock? I mean Mr. McFee.”

“Oh, from time to time, yes. That’s when he tells my boy to look after the dog. Usually he gives him something to buy food for it. We don’t have much money.”

Franz reached into his pocket for his wallet. He had no intention of going back into the kitchen where the tins of dog food were stashed. He held out a note and said, “Is that enough?”

“I should think it will be, yes. Have you no idea when your friend is coming back then?”

Franz shook his head again and went off to his car.

He drove home slowly, cautiously, not really concentrating on what he was doing. His mind was on other things. At one point he drove off the road down a side street and stopped while he sorted through his thoughts. What had he seen back in the bungalow? A hallucination or some kind of tableau devised by Murdock to scare away burglars? It would certainly have that effect but surely it would be better placed in the front of the building instead of hiding away behind a maze of wooden partitions where he, Franz, had only come across it as an afterthought, after searching the whole bungalow.

It then seemed to him that perhaps it had been that his brain had simply misinterpreted the information it was receiving and things were not as they seemed. He had never experienced any kind of hallucination before but that seemed a more reasonable solution to what he now began to think of as his “vision”. He thought that might be the explanation for all such visions, religious and otherwise. If he, a determinedly unbelieving person, could think he saw such sights, then surely it could happen to anyone?

He drew comfort from that thought. He even began to wish he had stayed a little longer in Murdock’s back room and even considered returning to take another look, but decided not to.

And he wouldn’t mention anything about his visit to Barbara, apart from telling her that he had not been able to contact Murdock at all. No point in upsetting her even more.

He went back to the main road and drove home.

The phone rang twice that evening but Franz did not answer it. He felt guilty and slightly irritated about not doing so but his mind was not sufficiently calm to deal with his sister and her worries. He was certain it was her who was calling as hardly anyone else ever did.

Next day, Monday, he worked on his computer at home then, in the afternoon, returned to the library to continue his research on his project. When the library closed he went to a supermarket to buy supplies. He was loaded down with bags of food as he approached his front door behind which he could clearly hear his phone ringing. Flustered by the urgent sound he tried his best to get to it in time but fumbled with his key and almost dropped some of his bags. Meanwhile the phone stopped ringing.

He knew he ought to call his sister but was still unready to do so. No doubt she would call back.

She did, almost an hour later. This time he picked up the receiver.

“Hello, you’re there at last then,” Barbara said, then seemed to whisper something that he didn’t catch.

“Sorry, could you repeat that?”

“No Franz, it doesn’t matter.”

“I went round to Murdock’s place yesterday. He wasn’t there. No sign of him. Did you know he has a dog though? That was a surprise. He’s never seemed to me to be a pet loving sort of person.”

“No, he’s never mentioned a dog to me. What kind of dog?”

Franz realised he had no idea. The boy had run away with the creature so quickly he’d not been able to get a look at it. He explained as much to his sister who did not sound particularly interested.

“Anyway,” she said, “I’ll be able to ask him about it. He’s back now.”

“What!”

“Yes, it was all a misunderstanding. He’s been ill and he didn’t want to tell us for some reason, so he slipped away.”

“Slipped away?”

“And he’s done it again now. He’s coming to see you. He should be there in ten minutes.”

“Ten minutes.”

“That’s correct. Stop repeating what I say please.”

“But why would he want to come here. Did you give him my address? He’s never been here before.”

“No, I didn’t need to. He must know it. Anyway, he’s heading in your direction now. He left as soon as you answered the phone and I told him you were in.”

“But Barbara, you shouldn’t have done that.”

“Why on earth not?”

“I don’t want to see him. I particularly don’t. The bastard. What does he want with me?”

“Franz, it’s not like you to talk of anybody like that. He said he just wants to thank you.”

“For what?”

“Oh, I don’t know. For caring enough to take the trouble to call on him?”

“Did you tell him I’d done that?”

“Not that I can remember, no. I didn’t know you had.”

“He was supposed to be ill wasn’t he?”

“Perhaps he was too ill to answer the door.”

“No he bloody wasn’t.”

“Franz, what’s got into you? You’re not normally like this.”

Realising he had to end the conversation to prepare for Murdock’s visit, Franz gruffly apologised, said he’d probably call her back later, and put down the phone. He went round his house checking all the doors and windows were shut and pulled all the curtains on the ground floor. Then he went up to his bedroom to watch and wait.

He waited in the darkest part of his bedroom and kept watch on the street in front of his house. After about ten minutes a small unmarked white van drew up against the opposite pavement. The driver turned off the engine but didn’t get out immediately, confirming, somehow, Franz’s guess that Murdock was the occupant of the vehicle. This proved correct when the door suddenly swung open some time later and Murdock’s huge bulk clambered into view. He was dressed in some kind of duffle coat with a hood concealing his face but Franz recognized the shuffling glide of his feet as he went round to the back of the van and opened the rear door. The dog ran out.

It doesn’t look too happy, Franz thought. It had its tail between its legs and slunk along with its belly almost touching the ground. Murdock closed the back of the van and crossed the street towards Franz’s house with the dog following close behind.

Franz moved backward a couple of steps, fearing he might be visible from the street. Murdock moved up to his front door and Franz expected him to knock or ring the bell but it didn’t happen.

Guessing that Murdock was reconnoitering his house Franz waited to see what move his visitor would make next. After a long silence he heard his letter box squeak. Then Murdock appeared in his little front garden again, pursued by the dog. As he got to the point where the garden ended and the street began he stopped, turned, looked up to where Franz had concealed himself, and raised an arm in some sort of salute. At the same time the hood fell back and Franz saw that he was smiling broadly, almost laughing. He turned, crossed the street, let the dog in the back of the van, got in himself and drove away.

After waiting a few minutes in the dark Franz ventured out of his bedroom and went downstairs without turning on any lights. He saw that a folded piece of paper had been posted through his letterbox. There was enough light from the street lamp outside his house for him to see, when he unfolded the paper, that there was nothing written on it at all. But he got the message.

He spent the next half hour going round his house with a little torch and filling his rucksack with essentials for travel. He made sure he had his passport, credit cards in his wallet, and some folding money.

Then, after checking to make sure there was no sign of the white van anywhere nearby, he ran out to his car and drove swiftly away. After parking in the airport lot he checked the departures board then walked up to the Scandinavian Airlines stand and bought a one way ticket. He wasn’t sure how long he was going to be away but it was definitely time he took a break. He’d decided he had a lot to get away from.

Next morning, at about eleven o’clock as usual, Murdock lumbered into Jerry’s room without knocking, with a selection of daily newspapers under his arm. He lit a cigar, sat down close to Jerry’s wheelchair, and spread the papers on the table in front of him.

“Anything especially grim today?” Jerry asked, genuinely expectant of some entertaining bad news.

Murdock made a play of searching through the sheets of paper as he said, “Well, not much actually, it’s been a good day for the world, all things considered, but I did spot one small item of interest. Now let me see… ah, here we have it.” He held up a page of newspaper and said, “It seems a 747 came off the runway in Oslo last night and hit a luggage vehicle.”

“Much harm done?”

“A few people hurt in the ensuing fire but only one fatality.”

“Oh. Hardly worth mentioning, then.”

“It says here that the dead man was believed to carry an English passport but the body was too badly burned to be identified. Next of kin have yet to be informed.”

“They’ll soon sort that out,” Jerry said, without much interest.

Murdock, who seemed to be very pleased about something, perhaps just himself, said, “I expect they already have done.”

Downstairs, sounding faintly mournful and further away than it actually was, a phone began to ring.